Let's Dance
by triseke
Summary: A new tenant arrives in 221c Baker St on a rainy August Sunday. She is in London to study and the damp riddled flat is all she can afford. Multiple pairings, but not immediate.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I hope you guys like it!

The evening was quiet. The only sounds that could be heard was the heavy patter of rain drops on the window, and the occassional rumble of thunder in the distance. It had been raining all day, and the storm that was now settling over London wasn't going anywhere any time soon. Outside, people hurried through the streets, clutching coats and hats to their bodies, trying to stay dry. There were a few people who attempted to use umbrellas but they didn't last long, not in the wind that was starting to pick up. All over the city, umbrellas were being blown backwards, and deceptively deep puddles were being stepped in by unwary pedestrians, who swore under their breath. Traffic was heavy, as it always is in the evenings, but because of the weather, it seemed to be so much and lines of traffic barely moved, whilst their occupants got more and more agitated. A lightening bolt cracked across the darkened sky, as John Watson glanced out the window. The weather wasnt bothering him. He had no reason to be out and about on a evening like this. He sat, comfortable, typing up his latest blog entry. The case itself had only been solved that morning and John was relieved that it was over. Triple knife crime in one of the poorer areas in London, set up to look as if it was a gang crime. Sherlock had managed to pinpoint the culprit not 36 hours after the initial crime. And so, John clacked away on "The Misplaced Earring". He sipped his tea, and he found his gaze wandering towards Sherlock, who was perched on the armchair beside the cheery fire that Mrs Hudson had so kindly lit several hours ago. Sherlock had sheets of paper strewn about him on the floor, and with his eyes closed, seemed to be contemplating something. Every so often, he would reach out for his violin, which was resting on the coffee table, and play a few notes, make either a face or note it down. John smiled to himself. He was happy, and comfortable, both in the physical sense and the metaphorical sense. He loved living here, being with Sherlock, solving crimes, and generally getting up to all sorts. It made life worth living, even if Sherlock could be an insufferable git at times.

Another roll of thunder, and the sound of a soft rapping on the door, shook John from his musings. Mrs Hudson popped her head round the door, "Anything from the shop, boys? I've just noticed I have no milk left. I know, its an awful evening out there, but I just can't go an evening without my tea. What will I have when the soaps are on?" She shook her head, unbelieveing that she could sit and watch "Cornonation St" without her Earl Grey and Hob Nobs. "There is suposed to be someone coming around to view 221c" she continued, "but they are already 2 hours late, and if i don't go to the shop now, i'l never get there! If she arrives, just let her into the hallway, I shan't be long. Ta - ra!" Mrs Hudson fixed her rain hat in place, and waved as she closed the door behind her. She was gone before John had the chance to offer her some of their milk. She must have assumed they were out of it. It wouldn't be the first time.

Sherlock didn't appear to have heard her at all. John sighed and shook his head. He would listen out for this caller, but wondered why Mrs. Hudson just didn't phone her. Two hours was an awfully long time to be late. Thats not even late, thats just rude, he finished, inwardly. He drained the last of his tea and stood up, stretching.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave him no notice, and continued making scribbles on the lined sheets all around him. John rolled his eyes, crossed in front of him, and proceded to throw more wood onto the fire. The fire reacted noisily, licking the wood, and sparking viciously. Sherlock quickly moved his sheets away, and looked at John crossly "It nearly landed on this!" he said, waving the sheets around. "I've been working on something all afternoon and -" Just before Sherlock could truly launch into his speech about John nearly destroying what well could be his masterpiece, his answer to Wagner's Ring Cycle, the sounds of someone knocking, quite heavily, echoed in the room.

"That must be the new tenant." said John, as he crossed the flat, and quickly walked down the stairs. Who ever it was must be soaked at this stage.

Sherlock stared after John. What new tenant? He followed John, and stood at the top of the stairs, bending his tall frame to get a better look.

John opened the front door. Standing in front of him stood a very wet woman. Her hair was plastered down, and tiny water droplets fell from loose strands. Her face was shining with water, her black glasses covered in rain drops. Her black coat seemed to cling to her body, saturated with rain. Across her back was slung a bag of some sort, and she was wheeling a small suitcase, little more than an over night bag. She seemed to be tucking her head towards her chest, and the hand that was clutching her wheeled suitcase was red and raw. John heard her clear her throat nervously.

"Hi.. um... I hope I have the right address. I'm supposed to meet a Mrs. Hudson here?"

John noticed that she wasn't English. He had spent enough time in Dublin to know an Irish accent when he heard one.

"I'm afraid she has had to step out. She won't be long though. You can wait inside if you'd like?" John opened the door wider, and pointing over his shoulder.

The woman looked slightly undecided for a couple of seconds, and as another rumble of thunder sounded, she nodded, and scooted past John into the hall.

John struggled slightly, closing the door. The wind was starting to blow harder. He turned, and saw the woman standing, in a slowly expanding puddle in the carpeted hall. She looked embarrassed.

"I'm very sorry, I seem to be tracking wet all over the carpet" she said, apologising, as she carefully lay her bags down, trying to avoid the rain soaked coat. She slicked her hair back, and wiped the wet from her glasses. "I'm Liz. Well, Elizabeth really. Liz Flannery." She extended her hand out to John, who accepted it. "John Watson. Nice to meet you. Would you like a cup of tea? You look positively chilled."

Liz smiled gratefully, and took her coat off. John watched as she arranged it so it dripped onto the tiles closest to the front door, and not the carpet. She turned and glanced up the stairs, where Sherlock had remained quietly throughout this exchange.

John followed her gaze. "Ah." he said, "that would be my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. He's a bit... eccentric." John finished, hesitantly. He motioned for Sherlock to come downstairs. Sherlock glided downstairs, and stopped in front of Liz. John watched his eyes, and found them to be flicking over Liz incredibly quickly. He was working.

"Sherlock..." John said, in a low, warning voice. "Behave."

Sherlock made no notice of him, just continuing to take in the figure in front of him.

Liz took a step back, nervously extending her hand. "I'm Liz Flannery."

Sherlock didn't speak. John elbowed him in the ribs, and hissed "Be nice!" under his breath.

Sherlock flashed Liz a smile, and caught her outstretched hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Welcome. I hear John is making tea."


	2. Chapter 2

Liz sat in the airport, looking out a window that overlooked the runway. Dublin airport hustled and bustled around her. She glanced up from her tea in a styrofoam cup, and watched the families with little, excited children bumbling past her, on their way to some sun drenched country. She watched busniess people in suits tap away on laptops or talking loudly into smart phones. She saw the very well dressed man sitting opposite her glance in her direction. Liz felt herself blush sightly. He seemed to be taking in what she was wearing, and he came to some sort of conclusion in his head as he looked away from her, and started chatting to the blonde woman two seats up from him. Liz sighed inwardly, fingering the torn insides of one her jacket pockets. Her worldly possessions were at her feet, and a new life in London seemed surreal, even now.

The rain that had started when Liz left her flat this morning still had not abated and it was getting worse. From the mute weather forecast on the tv, Liz could make out that there was a storm heading for Dublin tonight, and the rain wasn't going anywhere. She threw a look at her watch, old and battered. Still 2 hours before her flight left. She had calculated that she would have an hour and 30 minutes to get to Baker St from the time her plane landed before she would be late. She wasn't sure how long it would take her, but better early than late. Liz shifted uncomfortably in the hard, airport seat, and her stomach contorted unpleasantly. She had spoken to the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, yesterday and this morning to let her know that she would definitely be coming to look at the flat in Baker St. Liz had seen the photos, and wasn't expecting much, but Mrs Hudson had assured her that the photos were old, and that there was some work done to it. Mrs Hudson seemed nice, Liz thought, kind of like a grandmother. There was something about her voice that made Liz want to trust her. I suppose, Liz mused, thats why I dont have any other flat viewings lined up. Liz had enough money for one or two nights in a cheap hotel if the flat at 221c didnt suit.

Mrs Hudson had also mentioned that the building had two other tenants. She seemed a bit wary about telling me any details about them though, Liz thought. She wondered if perhaps Mrs Hudson was afraid that she would not take the apartment if she knew more about them. Liz's stomach knotted again. She put those unpleasant thoughts out of her head, and focused on the fact that she felt she could trust Mrs Hudson. Liz reached into her suitcase, and pulled out a battered old laptop, and switched it on, attempting to go over the location of Baker St and what was the easiest way to get there. Tube, taxi or..

Suddenly Liz was interrupted by the sounds of an almost inaudible loudspeaker announcement. She strained her hearing, and could barely make out that her flight had been delayed, and to stay alert for further updates. Liz swore softly, packed her laptop away again, and sat.

She wondered what London would be like. She had never left Ireland before. Her course co-ordinator in university was the one to suggest studying abroad as part of her PhD programme. He had organised her passport, and papers for her. Liz smiled, remembering how nervous Damien was before her Skype interview with the heads of the Physics and Astronomy department at Queen Mary's. He was excited as she was when she got her acceptance letter. He took her out to dinner, and they got very drunk. He had even insisted on giving her a lift to the airport. Liz hugged him outside of Terminal 1, trying to stay upbeat, trying to show how excited she was. But she knew, and she suspected Damien knew, that Liz was losing the only friend she ever had.

"Write to me. The old fashioned way," Damien had murmered into Liz's dark hair as he held her tightly. "We can pretend we are in a turn of the century epic Victorian story. I'l even wear a red coronation the next time we meet in case you don't recognise me." Liz smiled, and batted him gently on the arm. "And I'l wear my hair up."

(((((((((((((((((((((

3 hours later and Liz was only getting onto the plane. She knew at this stage she was going to be late. She really hoped that Mrs Hudson would still show her the apartment. Liz fumbled about in her trouser pocket to try and find her phone. She had tried to call Mrs Hudson already, but her phone just wasn't connecting to the UK number. She tried again. Nothing. Just some automated message telling her that the number wasn't in service at this time. Liz had strapped herself in the seat. This was the first time she had been on a plane, and it was in the middle of an oncoming storm. Liz gulped and screwed her eyes shut as the plane slowly began to move. She could hear the voices of air stewards laughing in the back, and the sounds of people chatting. Liz started to count backwards from 50 and just as she hit "12", the plane took off. She grabbed the hand rest tightly, knocking her fellow passengers hand off it in the process. She could hear the snort of derision but she didnt care. She felt as if she was going to get sick.

Just as suddenly as the plane had lifted off the ground, Liz felt it level out, and her nerves began to untangle. She even managed to glance out the window of the plane, as one of the air stewards passed her a glass of water. Flying was definitely not a pleasant experience, Liz concluded. She tried not to think about the landing..

((((((((((((((((((((

The flight to London City Airport from London is very short, only about 50 minutes. Liz had only just gotten used to the idea of flying when the plane made its descent into London. At this time of the evening, the storm had really settled in, and the descent was far from smooth. 20 minutes later, and her legs shaking violently, Liz was standing in front of the Docklands Light Railway which would take her away from the awful airport and closer to her new, fingers crossed, home. The rain was really pouring now. Liz had only been outside for less than 10 minutes and she was soaked to her bones. As most of her journey had taken place underground, she had avoided most of the rain. However, the brief changes and the stolen moments outside had saturated Liz. Her umbrella, all nice and dry in the front of her case, was useless. The wind was strong now. The rain lashed at her face and hands. It stung. Liz struggled to keep her long hair out of her face, but even tied up, it was whipping around. Her glasses seemed to accumulate more water than Liz ever thought possible, causing her to misstep, and bash into people.

Daylight was fading as Liz stepped off of the Hammersmith and City line, and out of Baker St station. She checked her watch again. She was nearly 2 and half hours late. She quickened her pace, and started to count the numbers on the building. It took her about 5 minutes to realise she was walking in the wrong direction. Feeling close to breaking point, she took a couple of deep breaths, and did a 180. She bumped into a little old lady, wearing a raincoat and rain hat. Liz mumbled an apology and walked on.

Finally, gloriously, she spotted 221. But, it was 221b she saw. No other numbers. No other 221's. She stood outside it for a couple of seconds, trying to decide what to do. A flash of lightening sounded overhead, and Liz began to knock smartly on the door. She tried to smooth her hair down, and knocked some of the water from her glasses, to improve her first impression, but she got a sinking feeling that this wasnt going to matter.

The door opened, and a man's face popped out from behind it. Liz's heart sank further. She coughed, and cleared her throat.

"Hi.. um... I hope I have the right address. I'm supposed to meet a Mrs. Hudson here?"

THe man quickly surveyed her, taking in, what Liz suspected, was quite a pitiful sight.

"I'm afraid she has had to step out. She won't be long though. You can wait inside if you'd like?" The man spoke with a soft accent. Liz was still getting used to hearing English accents at every turn. The man gestured behind him into the dark hallway.

Liz really didnt want to just walk in. This person could be anyone. There could be anyone in the house. She wasn't even sure this was the right address. She was about to decline, say she would wait in the cafe next door, when a roll of thunder clapped, much closer than the lightening. Liz nodded quickly, and stepped past this man. Liz noted that he was not a tall man. Probably only slightly taller than she was. She watched him close the door, and suddenly realised she was letting water ruin the hall carpet.

"I'm very sorry, I seem to be tracking wet all over the carpet" Liz said, apologising, as she carefully lay her bags down, trying to avoid her rain soaked coat. She slicked her hair back, and wiped the wet from her glasses. Again.

"I'm Liz. Well, Elizabeth really. Liz Flannery." She extended her hand. At least if he was a murdering rapist psycho, she would know his name, Liz thought grimly.

"John Watson. Nice to meet you. Would you like a cup of tea? You look positively chilled." He shook her hand, and smiled warmly at her.

Liz had never heard more welcoming words in her life, smiled at John as if he had offered her some rare delicacy. She shook off her coat, and lay it near the door, allowing the rainwater to collect in a little pool on the tiles. When she straightened up, she started slightly. She had not noticed the other man, standing awkwardly at the top of the stairs.

John followed her gaze. "Ah." he said, "that would be my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. He's a bit... eccentric." John finished, hesitantly.

Liz watched as John motioned for Sherlock to come other man glided downstairs with almost no effort, and stopped in front of Liz. Liz found herself looking straight into practically silver eyes. She saw his eyes move over her body, quickly and methodically. This did nothing for her sense of forboding.

"Sherlock..." came the low, warning voice. "Behave."

Liz laughed nervously, stepping back from this man. She extended her hand, willing it not to tremble. "I'm Liz Flannery".

The new man didn't saw anything, Liz watched the first man, John, poke him, and hiss something at him.

Sherlock flashed Liz a smile, and caught her outstretched hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Welcome. I hear John is making tea."

Liz really hoped Mrs Hudson would be back soon.


End file.
